But Bleeding is Boring
by BloodForMyBreakfast
Summary: In which Sherlock is bored, John is impatient, and the bookcase is heavy.


"I'm _bored_."

Briefly, I glance up at Sherlock on the other side of the room, then go back to my newspaper. I try to appear disinterested; I don't want to get dragged into something probably lethal and definitely pointless.

"What happened to those cold cases?"

"Solved them."

"Aren't there any new ones?"

"Lestrade's...I don't know, wasn't listening. He must be on holiday: he isn't at the Yard; no one else will let me near anything decent."

"Hasn't Mycroft got any for you?"

"We're not speaking."

I heave a sigh, Sherlock pouts. "Why don't you... Compose something, go out, watch telly, find out where Lestrade is, talk to your brother? Why don't you just shoot the wall to pieces?"

"Those all sound tedious," he spits the word, like it's dirty. "And you hid my gun, remember?"

"Well then. Why don't you try to find it? You can have it back if you do." I'm not worried; he'll never guess where it is.

"Under your bed? Your mattress? The back of your wardrobe? The safe? Your chest of drawers? The medicine cupboard?" He continues guessing aloud: in a few seconds I'm able to ignore him completely and submerge myself in the paper. But all too soon I'm finished reading it, and Sherlock is still obviously bored.

"_John_..."

"Why don't you...make a cuppa?" I'm waiting for the whine of '_but tea is boring_', but it never comes. Instead, there're soft padding footsteps across the carpet to the kitchen, the sound of the tap running and the kettle boiling. Two mugs hit the worktop, another cupboard is opened and the kettle stops boiling. Curious, I go to investigate. Sherlock doesn't _make tea_.

"Are you alright?" I ask, hovering anxiously, partly to make sure he doesn't end up scalding himself or something, and partly to prevent him from poisoning us both.

He doesn't respond until he's finished and he's taken a sip, pulling a face because it's still too hot. "Fine. Never better. You?"

I roll my eyes. "You know that's not what I meant."

He gives me an innocently puzzled one, folding his arms around his tea and nodding at the other cup. "I made you a drink. What did you mean, then, exactly?"

"You don't _make tea_." I scoff the words, because it's how he would.

"You said to," he shrugs, taking another sip, not grimacing this time.

"Since when do you do what I say?" I cough, nervous: "Is this an experiment?"

"Not at all," he smiles too angelically, and then leads me back into the living room. "I'm still bored, John," he frowns, like it's something I can cure. Normally, I probably could. But Sherlock isn't entirely normal anyway.

"Well, what do you want to do?" I try to placate him, because shooting the wall just isn't my idea of a fun night in.

"I want to play Cluedo," he informs me, a tiny grin dancing across his lips. What better way to spend your evening? I think I may prefer the gun to this.

"Not after last time," I warn, sniffing my tea sceptically, not convinced it's clean.

"_Please_?" He drags the plead out for so long, at such a high frequency, there's nothing I can do but give in, just hoping for relief from the glass-shattering sound.

"Fine, Sherlock. But if you don't follow the rules-"

"The rules are _wrong_," he chimes, bouncing nimbly to his feet and standing on the back of the sofa to reach the bookcase where he keeps the game stashed. There's really no need for him to stand on anything, but I think he just likes climbing.

I don't see him fall, but I hear the yelp, the bang, the bigger bang of the bookcase falling, and a pained groan. "Jo-" He doesn't finish my name, but it doesn't matter because I'm already with him, heaving the bookcase off his shoulder. It's quite light, actually, but all the books have piled themselves on top of him. I clear them away so I can get to him easily, and kneel by him, checking his airway, respiration and pulse, asking if he can hear me. He responds with a disgruntled snort and a moan.

"Sherlock, you've cut your head and probably hurt your shoulder as well. I need to move you so I can sort it, okay? It might hurt a little, but you'll be fine." He doesn't respond, but his eyes go wide and he suppresses a scream when I carry him to the sofa and try to make him as comfy as possible. He throws me a tight grimace, intended as a smile, and I tell him I'll be a minute while I go to fetch a first aid kit and some painkillers from the kitchen.

When I return, he looks relieved, like he thought I wasn't going to come back. I give him paracetamol and get him to hold a cloth to his head to stop the bleeding. His vitals are fine; he's clearly alert, with no sign of a concussion, so I go straight to checking his shoulder. There's a nasty black bruise forming, and he hisses when I touch it, but there's no serious damage, so I move on to his head. It's deep enough to need stitches, but he refuses to let me take him to the hospital, so I settle on doing it myself.

While he pulls faces and hisses quietly, I try distracting him. "Are you still bored?" I probe softly, earning an amused sniff and half a smile.

"Definitely. Bleeding is _boring_."

I chuckle at that, still concerned about the vacancy in his icy eyes. "But this beats Cluedo."

He huffs, not simply humouring me now. "Cluedo is stupid. The rules are wrong."

I raise an eyebrow. "Then why do you like playing it so much?"

He smiles softly at me, analysing the bloody cloth he's still holding. "Because someone needs to make sure the Cluedo police know it was a suicide."


End file.
